Seduced by a Pirate

THREE



June 3

Arbor House

Phoebe’s youngest, Alastair, ran past her, his shriek coming in a long stream like shrill birdsong.

Behave yourself, Master Alastair,” Nanny McGillycuddy shouted. “He’s losing his nappy again. Where is that dratted girl? I swear she spends the better part of her time daydreaming. Lyddie!” she bellowed, waving across the lawn to where a young nursemaid lounged in the shade of a willow.

Satisfied that the girl was rising, albeit reluctantly, to her feet, Nanny turned back to Phoebe. “What will you tell people about this muddle?” Since the death of Phoebe’s mother, her old nanny had become her only real confidante.

I don’t want to tell anyone anything.”

You’ll have to. And you’ll have to deal with him as well.” Nanny put down her teacup and surged to her feet. “Drat that child; Alastair is in the lake again.” She turned back to Phoebe. “Whatever happened on your wedding night, you’ll have to put it out of your mind, child. If he seeks you out, that is. He’s your husband, more’s the pity.”

Phoebe hesitated, the truth trembling on her tongue. But she bit it back, and besides, Nanny was already trundling toward the lake.

Griffin had been so horrified when . . . when that had happened. She had been braced for the searing pain her mother had described, ready to get it over with and count herself a properly married woman.

Then, when there had been nothing whatsoever to get over . . .

She had never blamed him for jumping out the window. At first, she had thought he would return in the morning. But he hadn’t. It wasn’t until the end of the week that she’d finally confessed the truth to her family: her husband had deserted her.

It was beyond humiliating, especially when they’d concluded that he must have boarded a ship and left England altogether. Her father hadn’t made things any better. “I paid for that churlish blue blood fair and square,” he had said between clenched teeth. “Paid up front for the privilege of making my daughter into Lady Barry.”

I am still Lady Barry whether Sir Griffin is at my side or not,” Phoebe had hastened to say.

Her mother had taken a much more cheerful attitude. “She’s better off without that young sprig,” she had said. “He’s too young by half, and I told you so at the time. He’ll be off to see a bit of the world and then find his way back home again. You’ll see.”

As for the wedding night fiasco, her mother was of the opinion that Phoebe was lucky, and that was that.

The problem was that Griffin never did make his way home again.

For a long time—years!—Phoebe fretted about the possibility, especially after a man named Mr. Pettigrew paid her a visit, announced that he was her husband’s agent, and deposited a large sum of money in a household account for her.

Then, after the fire in which she had lost both her parents and one of her sisters . . . well, after that she stopped thinking about Griffin altogether. It was hard enough just to get through the day.

When the mourning period was finally over, the children came along.

Her husband had been just about her height, she thought, with no sign that he would grow much taller. They had snuffed all but two candles on her wedding night, but even so she had realized that he was nervy, and then horrified when his tool wouldn’t do its business.

Over the years since, she’d heard quite a few stories of men in the same situation. In fact, just last week Mrs. Crimp had told her of the baker. His wife had driven all the way to Pensford in order to ask the apothecary a private question, but she’d had the bad luck to be overheard by Mrs. Crimp’s oldest granddaughter.

Phoebe had just shrugged. She didn’t care about that, especially now she had children of her own. She would welcome an incapable husband. At least he wouldn’t be bothering her when she was tired or out of sorts.

Mrs. Crimp had said the problem was near to an epidemic. And if that was the case, well then, Griffin probably felt better by now, knowing that his friends were in the same boat.

But it was one thing to be thinking all these thoughts over the years, and it was quite another one to imagine her husband walking through the front door.

She had forged such a comfortable life, with friends like Amelia, whom he would probably look down on. No one in her close circle was from the gentry, let alone the aristocracy.

What if Sir Griffin wanted to rub shoulders with Bath’s polite society? Or worse, pay a visit to London for the season? The very idea gave her a feeling of profound disquiet.

Yet surely she was worrying in vain. How could a nobleman-turned-pirate possibly reenter polite society?

Just as it had throughout the sleepless night, her mind bounced back and forth between terrifying possibilities.

Nanny had plucked Alastair from the lake and was wringing out his little nankeen coat. It was so peaceful at Arbor House. Beyond the river she could see men mowing grass and, in the far distance, a faint haze that suggested it might rain later on.

A man of violence had no place here. Griffin would likely recognize that in one glance.

She was worrying about nothing.